“I need the order sheet I used.”
Eric reached toward the clipboard near his station.
“This is the order on file.”
He held it up.
Margaret took it.
The client name was Carter.
Wedding pickup.
Saturday.
Three-tier vanilla almond cake.
Raspberry filling.
Design:
White hydrangeas.
Dusty blue sugar roses.
Silver ribbon border.
Minimal green leaves.
Margaret stared.
“That is not my sheet.”
Eric laughed softly.
“Of course.”
She looked at the bottom.
Print time:
1:46 p.m.
Margaret had started decorating at 8:10 that morning.
She had finished the final sugar flowers shortly after one.
She looked at Eric.
“This was printed after I finished.”
His eyes flickered.
Only briefly.
Margaret noticed.
So did Rosa.
Eric answered quickly.
“It was updated.”
“By whom?”
“I corrected the order.”
“From whose instructions?”
Eric did not answer immediately.
Margaret folded the paper.
“Where is the original?”
“This replaced it.”
“No.”
Rosa stepped closer.
“The original was on her table before lunch.”
“I remember the crease down the middle.”
Eric looked at her.
“You remember a crease?”
“Yes.”
“That is ridiculous.”
Rosa’s expression did not change.
“I folded it when I moved the mixer cord.”
Eric looked away.
David spoke from behind them.
“Maybe you should stop blaming her until you know why two pieces of paper disagree.”
Eric pointed toward the front.
“You need to leave now.”
David looked at Margaret.
“You want me to stay?”
Margaret surprised herself.
“Yes.”
Eric stared.
Margaret continued.
“If I’m being sent home, I want a witness to what happened.”
David nodded.
“I’ll stay.”
Eric looked toward the office.
Then back.
“This is getting ridiculous.”
“No.”
Rosa said.
“It got ridiculous when you told her to throw away a wedding cake before the customers even arrived.”
Margaret gathered her purse.
Her coat was hanging in the employee hallway.
She walked toward it slowly.
Each step felt wrong.
This was her kitchen.
Or had been.
She knew which oven ran two degrees hot.
Which refrigerator shelf froze butter too hard.
Which mixer needed its bowl rotated before locking.
Which floor tile clicked under weight.
Now she felt like she had already been erased from the room.
At the doorway, she turned.
“Do not throw that cake away.”
Eric stared.
“It belongs to the bakery.”
Margaret nodded.
“Then preserve it.”
“If the customer rejects it, fine.”
“But let them reject what I actually made.”
She left.
David followed.
Outside, the February air cut through Margaret’s coat.
She stopped beside the brick wall of the bakery.
Then the tears came.
Not loudly.
She covered her mouth.
David remained several feet away.
He did not touch her.
Did not tell her everything would be fine.
After a minute, Margaret whispered:
“They watched me hold that cake over a garbage bin.”
David looked toward the windows.
“They watched him tell you to.”
“That’s what they’ll remember.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“They’ll remember both.”
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“For a second, I believed him.”
David said nothing.
“I looked at my hands and thought maybe twelve years of knowing what I was doing had disappeared.”
She laughed bitterly.